Page 13 of Antihero (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #3)

Chapter six

A lmost three years as the Needler in Tregam, and not one major injury. Now, two weeks of chasing this psycho, and I’ve got a torn ligament in my shoulder and a sprained ankle, not to mention hypothermia twice in a week.

I get released from the island’s medical clinic the day after they find me, and that’s not a minute too soon.

Shoulder and ankle wrapped, I’m deposited at my new lodgings with a crutch and a sling.

Painstakingly, I get to the third floor by myself—having lied and told them I lived on the first floor.

I’ve never been wonderful at accepting help.

In those homes as a kid, it always seemed to come with a price, and I’ve not quite learned to trust a helping hand.

It’s something to work on. Right after the murderous tendencies.

The apartment is small and characterless. A studio with built-in wardrobes, an ensuite attached, and a kitchenette built into the wall against the bathroom, the door to which is next to the double bed. But the view is nice. The single window on the other side of the bed looks north, towards Tregam.

The first thing I do is hobble to the bathroom and flush the meds they gave me—another thing I don’t trust. Addiction. I’ve seen it grip people in too many forms, illegal and legal substances both. Not a risk I ever took, and I’m not in enough pain to start now.

I take off the sling and my clothes to fall onto the thin bedspread, watching the ceiling fan spin at an idle speed.

I haven’t slept properly since the night before my ill-fated stalk of Paige at the club.

Here, in the quiet of the room, the door locked, it all catches up to me.

I let the low hum of the fan lull my eyes closed.

When I wake, it’s with a start, instantly lucid in the soft evening light. I must have slept through the afternoon.

I’m not alone.

Her weight settles back on my stomach. My good arm comes up, more reflex than reaction, but Paige catches it with both of hers, throwing her weight forward to pin it above my head.

I’m fighting back against her easily, though the pressure as I try to lift my torso shoots pain through my ankle as my foot presses down into the mattress.

Then her hand snakes out to grab my other arm and crank it over my head too, and the shock makes me momentarily weak as I grunt in pain.

That’s all Paige needs, and she weighs her hands on mine above my head, my left arm useless. Just a point of pain. My ankle complaining too much for me to use my hips as leverage.

I’m naked, and she almost is too, in nothing but that diaphanous dress she’d been wearing at the club, her legs bare as she straddles me.

When she slides backwards, settling over my hips, I know immediately she’s not wearing anything underneath the dress.

Even with that movement, one side of the dress slips off her shoulder, exposing her nipple.

My gaze catches on that breast for a beat too long.

I’m weak, sore and bruised, but she’s so outmatched that I’m lifting her off with one arm, anyway.

I’m about to roll and pin her myself, the pain be damned, when the sharp tip of a three-inch blade nicks the corner of my chin.

One hand weighing on both of mine, the other holding the knife to the soft underside of my jaw, my Cutthroat looks down on me.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t do it,” she warns in a soft voice.

I know she’ll do it. I tilt my chin up, away from the sharp tip. “What do you want?” I grate out, stilling.

Paige tilts her head, smile growing, and slides her hips back so that her warm softness settles over me where I’m flaccid. Then she rolls her hips.

My eyes widen.

She shrugs her upper body so that the other side of her dress slides down her arm, loose enough to catch at her elbow, and her breasts, perky and round, float above me.

With the way she’s leaning her shorter body over me to reach my hands, her belly presses to mine, warmth mingling and oddly, of everything that’s touching on us right now, the most intimate.

She settles, shifting her hips so that the heat of her sex seems to sink into my groin. Paige tilts her head down at me. “It’s been a while since we’ve been intimate, love. Why haven’t you come back to see me?”

I figure that telling her it’s because she’s a madwoman isn’t the right tact, and smile sweetly. “You seemed rather busy, what with your agenda and all.”

She gives a saccharine smile back, then grinds softly against me. My breath hitches. All I need to do is not respond, not give her anything to work with.

I can feel her opening around the bottom of my shaft, lips warm and already slick. The way her hips roll promises ecstasy. When was the last time I had a woman ride me?

I need to stop staring at her peaked nipples.

The way her arms press her breasts forward, and how each of her deep inhales lifts them a little higher.

I force my thoughts, my attention away, and she dips closer.

Her hardened nipples brushing the top of my chest, her lips caressing the other side of my jaw to her knife.

I think of every unsexual thing I can. It works, and she knows it.

“Oh,” she pouts, “Don’t be like that Needler.” Somehow, she makes the name sound emasculating. “Didn’t you have fun last time? Why not again? Except you’ll not get the chance to choke me this time,” she adds the last sounding vaguely displeased.

Her hot breath tickles my neck, her body tantalising and full against mine. The ache in my shoulder feels far away, distant. I need it present, a distraction, something to focus on that’s not her, soft, warm, promising…

She bites my throat, hard enough to hurt, to break my safe thought pattern as I grunt, managing not to buck her off as the knife bites its own mark against my chin. "Maybe a kiss would help?" The way her eyebrows lift, I know she’s not talking about kissing my mouth .

I actually laugh, and am rewarded by her looking put out. "It’s going to take much more than a knife at my throat before I let your teeth anywhere near my cock," I tell her, my tone cruel.

"Oh? And what will it take?"

"A knife at your throat," I respond, pressing my head up, my chin onto the blade.

Paige blinks, then recovers, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t move your hands. And don’t bother going for the knife.

I promise you, I’m faster.” She lets go of my hands, pulling herself more upright, giving me a view of her barred upper body.

Her hair is no longer in those fake waves but just her usual dishevelled look, tumbling over her shoulders and against her back, her breasts taut.

The knife stays at my throat, now pinching against my Adam's apple, but her free hand is trailing down my chest, coursing her fingers over my abdomen. My breath pants. I’m sure she feels it. The effort of resistance, like running a sprint.

My brain has gone blank, too lustful and simultaneously too busy with the effort of staying flaccid. When her hand finds me, it’s like a jolt. I do worse trying to cover up the sound that comes from me, like a gut-punch, than I do attempting to stop the blood rushing down to meet her touch.

I grunt in frustration, my head falling back, throat long, and I swell in her hand, the pressure instant.

When her hand leaves me, her weight settles again, this time crushingly as she rolls herself along me. I swell more, and think less.

She grins and bites her lip when my manhood twitches, now full.

Paige braces her free hand on my chest and looks down at me.

“That’s better.” Her voice turns breathy as she grinds, long and slow, right to my tip.

Then back down. I can’t take my eyes off her, watching her like she’s both a serpent and some kind of succubus I can’t resist. I need her, need release, as much as I need to hate her.

She grinds once, faster, eyelids drifting half closed as a breathy moan escapes her parted lips.

Then slow again, right up to my tip, her eyes opening to meet mine as she tilts her hips and I feel the head of my cock slide towards tightness.

Jaw tightening, my breath rasps out hard.

My muscles clench, lifting myself involuntarily against her, braced at her entrance.

Breath trembling as she presses back, Paige pulls me in slowly, lifting herself up to position and sliding down onto me.

Lowering herself slowly, tentatively at first, she squeezes my first inches, then again, taking more, and more, until she’s swallowed me completely.

My own groan extends out, almost pained, as she finally fills herself with me, squeezing my cock, relieving the pressure at the same time as stoking the need for more.

She braces her hand against my chest as she starts to move; rolling, grinding movements. Her short little gasps come out almost accidentally as she watches me. Her lip is caught between her teeth.

The knife has slipped against the corner of my jaw rather than to my throat, but I couldn’t move to dislodge her, even if I had that willpower. I’m paralysed by her body, mesmerised as she rides me.

“You need this…” she breathes out.

“No,” I grunt.

She ignores me. “You need someone to hunt…” Her breath catches as she rolls her hips, taking me deeper, “…and someone to save.”

I process her words. The formulation of my own is near impossible as she moves in long, slow, and lingering strokes. I can’t stop watching her face, her expression soft and wondrous. “I was getting better. Before you…”

For a moment, the torture and heaven of her movements cease, and she leans forward on me, eyes glassy with ecstasy.

“You can pretend to be ‘John’. You can turn yourself into a husk and empty yourself of life. Or…” Straightening, her lips tug into a smile as she moves again.

“…you can have this. You feel alive now, don’t you? ”